


Synthpop

by afearfulbride



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Music Industry AU, Choose Your Own Adventure, M/M, Multi, Zenyatta the Metal Idol, more like choose your own boyfriend tbh, this will get smutty, via twitter vote
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-01-31 11:31:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21445525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afearfulbride/pseuds/afearfulbride
Summary: Seeking his own path- a way to fund the Shambali monastery- Zenyatta agrees to become the world's first omnic idol. Romantic drama and intrigue ensues. This is a choose your own adventure-style smut fic where readers decide when and with whom the shipping goes down. Check my twitter for voting options!
Relationships: Genji Shimada/Tekhartha Zenyatta, Jesse McCree/Tekhartha Zenyatta
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	1. Scouted

**Author's Note:**

> The latest votes for each chapter can be found pinned to the top of my [twitter](https://twitter.com/afearfulbride)!

Zenyatta could not take his eyes from the man’s watch.

“Do not think that I will take no for an answer, Mondatta.” Although he scarcely moved as he spoke, the gilded arms ticked across the surface of the watch-face so that each second winked extravagance back at him. It struck Zenyatta, not for the first time, that it- like the Italian shoes, and the designer suit- was intended to impose upon the two monks a sense of power and authority.

It was not working.

“Mr. Shimada,” Mondatta began, and a part of Zenyatta cringed internally at what he recognised all too clearly as his chastising voice, just a fraction deeper and crisper than usual. “Your tenacity is to be commended. But every omnic here chose the Shambali order because they believed that they were more than mere possessions. This place is a sanctuary. What you are proposing is counter to everything for which we stand.”

As if in protest, a fat drop of snow-water fell from a crack in the ceiling and plopped unceremoniously into Shimada’s untouched cup of tea.

Shimada’s eyes narrowed, but Zenyatta still caught the unruly flash within them. He wondered, briefly, what his wan, handsome face would look like twisted with the rage that simmered beneath its surface. His fingers rapped impatiently on the table, inches from the contract he had placed there fifteen minutes earlier.

“I am not _buying_ you, I am _hiring_ you. If you look at the terms, you will find that they are more than fair-”

“For an omnic,” Mondatta interrupted evenly. “Under the law, an omnic performer cannot be signed- only procured. I will not be an instrument.”

“You will be paid,” Shimada persisted, “more than any larger label would ever dream of paying an omnic.”

There was, now, the faintest touch of colour upon his cheeks. He leaned over the table with his thunderous eyes and his hands slammed flat upon its surface, as if they were the only things keeping him from vaulting over it entirely.

_Plink._ Zenyatta edged his own cup, already placed in anticipation next to him, just a fraction to the left.

“Do you think they will be so lenient when they realise that you are here?” Hanzo hissed. “There are only so many of your model in existence. Your specifications are perfect. As soon as Ryuujin or Talon realise that there already exists a specimen with your level of charisma and physical discipline, they will not hesitate to track you down, and they will _take_ you, contract be damned!”

Zenyatta’s optics flickered momentarily to his brother. Until Hanzo Shimada had appeared on the monastery steps earlier that morning, he had not possessed even the faintest notion of the supposed rarity of their builds, much less the value they had in the entertainment industry of all things. Yet if Shimada were telling the truth- and Mondatta’s silence spoke, in that respect, volumes- his warning rang uncomfortably true. Without thinking he slid the contract closer, skimming its contacts.

Shimada, meanwhile, seemed to be reeling himself in. He smoothed a loosened hair back into his temples, visibly tense but steady nonetheless. “If you are as successful as I predict you will be,” he continued, “you will earn more with me in a year than you could dream of receiving in a lifetime of donations. Your temple is falling apart. How long do you think you can survive on charity alone?”

Mondatta, still, said nothing.

“Then you have sealed your own fate,” Shimada barked- but there was, this time, none of that sparking anger that had marked his tone before. Frustration, yes, and most certainly annoyance, but he seemed already to have resigned himself to rejection.

Something twisted in Zenyatta’s core as he watched the man rise and reach for his coat, those dark eyes passing over them like a sentence. “I give you three months at mo-”

“I will do it.”

At what point he had risen to his feet, Zenyatta could not rightly ascertain. Yet here he stood, staring defiantly down at Shimada, still half-seated but now wearing a most satisfying look of bafflement. It fuelled him like nothing else.

“Mondatta and I were built to the same specifications,” he continued. “It is our bodies you wanted, was it not? I should make a fine substitute.”

“Zenyatta.” Mondatta’s hand landed on arm, his voice low and warning. “You do not have to do this.”

Zenyatta paused. “I know,” he said, carefully. “There would need to be changes, of course.” With one hand he ran his fingers over the black and white of the contract. Not once had his optics left Shimada’s face, watching for even the smallest reaction. “But I think, perhaps, I would like to.”

At last, their eyes met.

And, little by little, the man began to smile.  
  


* * *

  
From signature to release, the process has been, by Zenyatta’s estimation, breathtakingly swift. By his new manager’s they are already late, hampered by what he calls “creative liberties” and what Shimada- what _Hanzo_\- calls “meddling”.

But performances have been recorded, audio edited and produced and mixed to within an inch of its life, photographs taken from every conceivable angle, previews released on every conceivable social media platform… and all of a sudden, in just two days, the first single from a signed omnic artist will drop, and he will be at the centre of it all.

Strictly speaking, this party is not _for_ him- supposedly it is in honour of some anniversary or another- but Hanzo has decided that it will make the perfect stage for his coming out, and now that they are here Zenyatta cannot say that he disagrees.

As much as Zenyatta dislikes to be paraded before an ever-increasing circle of executives, agents and journalists, all of whom speak over his head to Hanzo as they probe him for his precise specs and software, this engagement seems to host a rather more promising crowd. Even the briefest of glances about the room makes it clear that this is the event of the season. Talent both new and old can be spotted in almost every corner; Hanzo will have to forgive him for drifting away as the conversation turns fiscal. At the very least, he thinks wryly, he can claim that he is _circulating_\- or, better yet, seeking a photo opportunity. Who would pass up the chance to be seen with the newest star in ARASHI’s sky?

The party appears to be in full swing. Conversation and alcohol alike flow freely, nowhere moreso than at the bar- open, as Zenyatta recalls. Their hosts had taken great pains to point out the array of omnic alternatives on offer, and, kind though the gesture had been, Zenyatta had not had the heart to tell them that his manager had strictly prohibited him from drinking. At least one patron seems to be taking full advantage. With a glass of amber whiskey in hand and his trademark hat on the counter beside him, there is no mistaking country legend Jesse McCree. Perhaps he is at long last releasing new music? His presence here is as welcome as it is intriguing- and judging by the way the man winks and raises his glass in greeting the very moment their gazes meet, the interest is mutual.

Of course, McCree’s eyes are not the only pair to find him in the room. But Zenyatta can sense attention from somewhere else entirely, prickling along his receptors as if their influence were a feather on the back of his neck, and it is not the kind he has come to recognise in his first steps towards stardom. It is intense, acquisitive, unwavering- and swiftly traced back to a tall, broad stranger standing alone in a battered leather jacket. Although his face is largely shadowed in his hood Zenyatta knows almost instinctively that his stare does not waver, not even when it is returned. It may not be wise to confront him as such- he doubts Hanzo would like him to mix with mysterious faceless men here- but Zenyatta cannot contain the swell of curiosity that rises within him at the thought.

On the other hand, he knows that Hanzo’s tolerance for networking is questionable at the best of times. As he glances back to his manager he can see the veins stood in clear relief on the back of his hand as he adjusts his tie, the tension drawn clearly along the line of his jaw all the way down to the set of his shoulders in their immaculate tailoring. It would probably be kind to rescue him from his audience before his patience runs dry and his glass mysteriously refills itself more times than is strictly necessary or healthy…

* * *

**CHOICES:**

  
a) Join Jesse McCree at the bar?  
b) Confront the stranger?  
c) Rescue Hanzo?


	2. Join McCree at the bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The latest votes for each chapter can be found pinned to the top of my [twitter](https://twitter.com/afearfulbride)!

**CHOICE**: Join McCree at the bar

* * *

Zenyatta is halfway to Hanzo’s side before he catches himself. His manager is a proud man, and, concerned though he is, he doubts he would be thanked for intervening in a situation he knows the man can handle on his own. If their time together has taught him anything it is that he is among the most resilient individuals, human or omnic, that Zenyatta has ever come across.

Even if he _does_ reach for another glass of champagne the moment the tray is brought within so much as six feet of him, drain it, and then reach for a second.

No, the best thing he can do to help the both of them is network- and who better to be seen with than a living legend? With a brief, wistful glance in Hanzo’s direction, Zenyatta turns his attention to McCree instead.

As he approaches, he passes by the stranger, still watching him with the relentless interest of a panther crouched low in the undergrowth, but after a few moments he turns away. When Zenyatta looks again he is gone, into a crowd or from the room entirely, and he is foolish enough to be disappointed. Mondatta did always tell him that his curiosity would be his downfall.

Fortunately, the welcome he receives at the bar is far too distractingly warm for him to fixate for long on what might have been. McCree’s smile widens, that lazy, lopsided half-smirk made famous on countless screens over the past two decades- a little more lined, and bordered now by an unruly beard, but even Zenyatta has to admit that the overall effect is-- well. Affecting.

“So you’re the fella they’re all talking about.” The corners of his eyes crinkle, but Zenyatta can see the glow in them nonetheless. “Your label sent me a preview of your single. Don’t know what I was picturing when I got it, but it sure as hell wasn’t…”

McCree fills the space with a haphazard wave of his hand.

“A monk?” Zenyatta offers.

“No, no, I mean-” McCree blinks, wrongfooted. “You’re a _monk_? Damn. I’d never have guessed. Guess I shouldn’t have bought you a drink, huh?”

So that is what the extra glass on the table is for. Ice crackles in the bottom, warmed by what Zenyatta, belatedly, realises must be that high quality oil he was so kindly (and misguidedly) promised by their hosts.

He has never had luxury oil before, he thinks.

“I do not think my manager will appreciate it, no.” A pause. “But… it would be rude to turn it down now.”

McCree’s smile widens. “That’s the spirit. No, what I _meant_ was that you’re a natural. Now, I’ll admit I had my doubts about an omnic making real music-”

“How generous of you.”

“- hey, hear me out!” he laughs, hands up. A moment later, one of them settled on his shoulder, warm and heavy and oddly comforting. “I’m paying you a compliment! Here I was thinking you’d be just another idol with a gimmick, when you come along and hit me with real _lyrics_.”

The glass feels alien in Zenyatta’s hands as he raises it, discreetly, to the lip of his faceplate and tips. “I did not like the idea of having words put in my mouth,” he says simply. Cool, acrid liquid seeps into his intake chamber, and before long it has set off a chain reaction of analytics in his processor, breaking down the texture, the scent, the chemical profile… “I am not a doll.”

The laugh became a chuckle in McCree’s crooked, handsome mouth, eyes soft. “You sure about that? You sure look like a doll to me, darlin’.”

With an audible clink the ice jumps in the glass. Zenyatta’s head jerks up, as if the word were a finger beneath his chin. _Darlin’_, he thinks, and at the same time as he reminds himself that he should not get carried away, another more seductive thought poses that has never been someone’s darling before. Is he sitting closer than he was before, he wonders, or is it the oil affecting his perception already?

“I-” he begins-

\- but whatever ill-advised response he is about to make is overtaken by a sudden clatter on the other side of the room and voices raised in stern warning:

_Hey, you can’t-_

_This is a private event-_

Just in time, Zenyatta turns to watch the crowd part and a pair of six-foot bouncers crash unceremoniously to the dancefloor to a chorus of gasps. Over them stands a man, a good head shorter than either of them and visibly swaying- but already he is holding court with a wild, dissident magnetism that seems to have silenced any outrage at its very inception. From his shock of lime green hair to his broad, comfortable smile, every inch of him seems devised to demand as much attention as possible. Even from where he sits, Zenyatta can see that he is dressed from head to toe in the kind of designer clothing one only ever sees behind glass or the cover of a magazine- the kind of leather jacket only arrogance could hope to wear gracefully, the kind of boots that would look patently ridiculous on anyone without the charisma to fill them.

There is nothing ridiculous about the intruder, and that is as infuriating as it is beguiling.

Only the sudden twitch of movement in the periphery of Zenyatta’s optics breaks the spell. Like a man possessed, Hanzo takes several faltering steps towards the intruder, eyes wide, lips parted.

Then he explodes.

“_You_!” All it takes is one word for Zenyatta to know that he is drunk. The white-shock in Hanzo’s face is already flushing, though whether it is from anger or the alcohol in his blood he would not like to guess. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Triumph glows in the intruder’s face. He squares his shoulders and approaches with all the swagger of a boxer squaring up for the first round.

“This party’s for somebodies, right?” He’s slurring, too, although Zenyatta gets the feeling that it is at least in part for show. “Whether you like it or not, _anija_, I’m still a somebody.”

Automatically Zenyatta glances sidelong at McCree, who is already lighting a cigar and frowning into his lighter. “_Anija_? Is that-”

“Yeah.” He exhales in a plume of grey-white smoke. “That’s Genji. Hanzo’s brother.”  
  
  


* * *

**CHOICES:**

a) Intervene, but take Hanzo’s side  
b) Intervene, but take Genji’s side  
c) Intervene, but stay neutral  
d) Let the Iris sort 'em out


	3. Take Genji's side (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The latest votes for each chapter can be found pinned to the top of my [twitter](https://twitter.com/afearfulbride)!

**CHOICE:** Intervene, but take Genji’s side

* * *

Zenyatta makes a soft, disbelieving sound. “I was not aware that he had a brother.” Yet it is obvious now, that proud nose and those cheekbones, the flecks of gold in his eyes…

“You’d be just about the only one in the world,” McCree answers. “But I guess Hanzo didn’t exactly break out the family photo album for you. Lot of history between those two, and most of it ain’t pretty.”

Curious though Zenyatta is, the point hardly needs further illustration; animosity crackles between them, palpable as the moments before a storm and twice as oppressive. Little wonder scarcely anyone around them seems prepared to draw another breath before that first streak of lightning finally shatters the tension.

But Zenyatta does not breathe. McCree scarcely has time to blurt out a _Zen, wait a-_ before he is gone, his hand scything uselessly through the air where the omnic’s wrist had been not a moment earlier.

Within a few steps he is close enough to witness Hanzo’s unabridged distress. Sweat beads at his temple; the softer darkness of his eyes has already been swallowed by the sheer black of pupils, which only belatedly flit to the side and settle upon him.

“Hanzo.” His voice is soft, almost plaintive, and he catches the uncertainty in the man’s eyes as they settle on him, seeing more for a moment a world beyond his own anger. “That is enough. Invited or not, he is here now, and arguing about it will not change his mind or make the situation any easier for either of you.”

Hanzo’s expression flickers, reeling through one hundred emotions in the space of a few short seconds before settling on unhappy mollification. “Zenyatta…”

Guilt pinches uncomfortably in the omnic’s core, knowing, deep down, that he has struck an unexpected blow to the man’s pride. But bruises are not enough, for some. Genji’s upper lip curls.

“You heard him,” he crows, “I’m not hurting anyone, right?”

Zenyatta glances at the bouncers, on their feet now but rubbing their respective heads and necks with sour expressions, but says nothing- he is not given the chance, regardless. Just as quickly as it had softened, Hanzo’s face hardens to implacable steel.

“You are causing a _scene_,” he hisses right back. Now his eyes dart from one side to the other, simultaneously tracking every executive and producer and their precise location in the room while avoiding eye contact of any kind. It is, in an anxious sort of way, almost impressive.

Genji, however, only barks out a flat and humourless laugh. “_I’m_ causing a scene? Even your precious talent agrees with me. Anyway, you don’t need my help to look like an asshole, _anija_.”

An electric chill zings through the cords of Zenyatta’s spine. In the sloppy bravado of Genji’s voice there stirs, all of a sudden, a cold fury- a threat yet to be vocalised, like black ice beneath the surface of his words.

Hanzo’s eyes widen fractionally. “Genji-“

But Genji is not to be stopped. There is an artificial airiness in his voice suddenly, the kind that has Zenyatta bracing himself for the inevitable fall.

“Most people would be happy ruining someone’s life once, y’know?” he continues. “But I guess you must like the way my blood looks on your hands, huh?”

The word lands in the room with bodily impact, _blood_, a fist across the mouth that leaves its audience winded. As the aftershocks wear off Zenyatta is the first to round on Hanzo.

“Blood?” He touches his shoulder urgently, biting back the impulse to shake it. “Hanzo, what does he mean by that?”

But although Hanzo’s mouth sags, opens and closes like a fish gasping for air, his voice never fills the space.

All eyes fall to Genji instead- and, nourished by the attention alone, he smiles as if he were standing beneath a spotlight. The last thing Zenyatta expects, however, is for that smile to turn on him.

“You really want to know what happened?” Somewhat spellbound, the omnic nods, and something wicked and tantalising sparks behind Genji’s eyes. “Come on. Let’s get out of this shithole.”

As they emerge the cool dark of the night is a visceral shock after the closeness of the hotel suite; with Genji pulling on his wrist he feels like a caterpillar stolen prematurely from its cocoon. In the midst of his recalibrations (_temperature, humidity, it will rain again soon_) he somehow finds the space to be relieved when Genji’s staggering falters before the curb and he waves down a cab.

Climbing into the backseat after him, it swiftly becomes clear that the seemingly generous capacity of the cab interior is no match for Genji’s singular ability to dominate a space. Even the way he sprawls is ostentatious, one arm draped across the back of the headrests, legs splayed. More to what Zenyatta suspects is the point, it ensures that their bodies will touch no matter how he sits, unless he decides to shrink against the door for the entire trip. The real challenge is pretending he does not notice the warmth where they meet, close enough to feel breath on his neck and smell the cologne dabbed liberally in the elegant dip of his clavicle.

As soon as Genji has rattled off his address he turns back to Zenyatta, still grinning.

“You’re a lot more fun than I thought you’d be. Zenyatta, right? When I heard Hanzo had a new act, I figured you were going to be some kind of boring kiss-ass.”

“I would not call that fun,” Zenyatta answers carefully. “He should not have lost his temper with you, but…”

He’s interrupted by a derisive little snort. “I didn’t say anything everyone doesn’t already know. It’s about time someone put that jumped-up prick in his place. Does he think he can just pretend I don’t exist or something? Asshole.”

Silent, he lets Genji carry on for a minute or so. Then he fixes him with an even stare.

“What did you mean by ‘blood’?”

He half-expects Genji to brush him off, but the question seems to strike an unexpected chord. His brows draw together.

“You really don’t know anything about anything, do you?” There is no sting in his tail; he’s stating facts, and Zenyatta has no reason to dispute them. He does not know. “Hanzo used to be my manager, too, back when we were both with Shimada Records. Back when being _Genji_ actually meant something. Everyone knew my name! I was the biggest idol in Japan- did he tell you that? Bigger than _anyone_. Bigger than he could ever have been, and he knew it.”

Again it breaches the surface, that rancor, a flash of _something_ that as swiftly captures Zenyatta’s senses as it does vanish before he can grasp it in turn, overwhelmed by easy bravado. A facial sleight of hand. Instead he finds that he is studying the man’s features, trying to place them on a screen, his body on a stage with a microphone in hand. He is handsome, he thinks, although he wonders if there is not the most network of scars crossing his face here and there like subtle lacework on his skin.

He seems to be waiting for something. Zenyatta indulges him.

“What happened?”

“Car accident,” Genji answers, immediately and with obvious, ugly relish. “I lost everything that day- my face, my voice, my reputation.”

“Then they-”

“Dropped me.” His teeth flash, a skull’s grin without warmth or humour. “Damaged goods. And Hanzo was the first one to vote against me.”

Genji’s eyes are twin gleams beneath the passing streetlights, gemstones at the bottom of a well; away from the hotel’s moody artificial lights Zenyatta can see that there is something strange about his right eye, something off in the way it reflects. His expression is no less inscrutable.

“I am sorry,” Zenyatta says, eventually. Genji snorts derisively but he persists nonetheless, leaning forward, his voice softly urgent. One hand settles butterfly-light on his shoulder. “You have been through a terrible ordeal, my friend. It is remarkable that you are even here beside me in the first place.”

If Zenyatta allows himself to believe for even a moment that Genji’s unpredictability is not exciting- is not, in fact, part of what drew him here in the first place, into a strange car in a strange city with, yes, a virtual stranger- he would be insulting his own intelligence. Already he has been taught to be ready for anything around this wildcard of a man. But even he has not prepared himself for the catlike _pounce_ that pins him to the tarnished leather, first by his shoulders and then, suddenly, by the force of a kiss.

There is no finesse here, no gentle seduction; lips glance off of Zenyatta’s faceplate, a gleaming thread of saliva connecting them for the briefest of moments before they attack his jaw and then his throat, all hot breath and teeth. More by luck than judgement Genji is finding the sensors beneath the surface, scarcely used but waking beneath the attention with giddy alacrity; his shoulders jerk, hands spasming about nothing before they find the broad, welcoming plain of Genji’s back and cling to it. Between the car door at his back and the alien pulse of his own body Zenyatta is little more than a passenger at the mercy of a wild and capricious pilot, and the thought is as frightening as it is alluring.

Certainly Genji, drunk as he is, has more presence of mind. _His_ hands are clumsy and ruthless and seem to find the entrances to all of Zenyatta’s clothes within seconds. Button threads are tugged to breaking point as they are released, the fabric of his shirt strained, flies unzipped- then the warm shock of human fingers is upon him, straight down the front of his pants and cupping his modesty plating.

A wave of pure and undiluted _need_ blindsides him. Zenyatta’s synth hiccups.

“Genji-”

Genji’s fingers curl, scrabble, catching nodes at the apex of his thighs and cutting him short with sick, heady pleasure. The world around him has condensed already. There is no longer a driver behind the security screen or even anything beyond the misty windows behind him- just the smell of leather and skin and the bite of alcohol, and that driving touch between his legs that does not beg but demand entrance. By the Iris, he has half a mind to grant it, that kneading pressure that his processor is only too happy to translate to theoreticals anyway. How would it feel on his bare cunt, spreading him, spearing him open on questing fingers?

When he finally looks down Zenyatta can see the flush colouring his cheekbones and the redness of his lips, bitten raw and split in places.

His eyes are impenetrably dark.

“You’re pretty convincing, for a bot,” Genji says. And all at once Zenyatta’s body goes cold.

“Pull over.”

Genji’s head jerks up, mouth hanging open and panting steam against his throat. “What?”

“I want you to pull over.” He sounds calmer than he is, he thinks, which is good. He takes advantage of Genji’s shock and leans forward, rapping his knuckles on the partition to catch the driver’s attention. “Now, please.”

To his surprise, Genji does not argue. While the car grinds to a halt he simply retreats into his corner of the cab in surly silence, slouched against the window. It is only when Zenyatta slides his way towards the open door that he actually turns to watch him leave, and though his face remains shadowed he catches one last glimpse of his eyes before they vanish behind misty glass and steel.

There Zenyatta stands, rain spatter bouncing off of his chassis, until the dark beetle of the cab vanishes into the gloom and its lights fade from view.

A number of things occur to him then. The first is that he cannot feel the familiar shape of his phone in his back pocket, it presumably having fallen out while he was distracted. The second is that he is completely unfamiliar with his surroundings and is therefore lost and alone, with no way of calling for help.

At the very least, Zenyatta thinks, it has somewhat dampened his desire.

As he takes the first of what he thinks, dejectedly, will most certainly be many, his attention is drawn from deciphering street signs to a slice of a building to his east. Nestled between a repair shop and a tattoo parlour proudly advertising _quality bodywork_ in neon is a run-down bar. Duct tape seals the cracks in the corners of the windows; when Zenyatta looks up he’s met by a flickering sign that half-heartedly welcomes patrons to _The Re urn_, its missing t presumably lost to time or indifference, or both.

A decrepit payphone stands beside the bar, but as he draws closer still he realises that the lights are on within. More interestingly, he can hear the melancholy rise-and-fall chords of a guitar above the rain, and perhaps even the hum of a voice across it.

* * *

**CHOICES:**

a) Use the payphone to call a company car  
b) Go inside


	4. Use the payphone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the interests of letting this flow better, there's no poll this chapter. Instead it'll be in the the next chapter, which will be relatively short and probably out some time around the weekend. Enjoy!

Zenyatta’s curiosity has already won out once tonight, and with decidedly mixed results at that- no matter what his still-throbbing body would like to insist about their tangle in the backseat. Tempting though it is to spend the rest of his night mingling with perfect strangers in a run-down bar, the fact remains that he has already made something of a mess of both his evening and Hanzo’s. His name alone is all it takes to conjure the image of his manager slumped over his desk with a tumbler of sake in one clenched hand, stewing in the dregs of what Zenyatta can only assume has been a disaster of a night for him.

At first Zenyatta isn’t sure if the rusty old payphone will even work, but as he lifts the receiver to his ear he is reassured by the drone of the dial tone, and with some effort he is able to persuade the rusty metal digits to dial ARASHI- or, rather, their private number. Even assuming that Hanzo is capable of answering a call in the first place, it seems kinder to leave the matter with an assistant.

(And if he is being honest with himself- painfully honest- perhaps he is simply not ready to speak to Hanzo yet. Guilt is not a feeling with which he has a great deal of experience, but even he realises that his apology would be better delivered in person.)

Fifteen minutes, he is told, once they have pinpointed his location- and then he is alone once more, perched on the stoop as if it were a raft adrift in the darkest ocean. The music at his back shifts, that stifled melody rising and falling, ambient beneath the soft cadence of rain and the roar of engines and the intermittent wail of a siren in the distance. For the first time since his arrival in this country he is, Zenyatta realises, quite alone: no hotel staff, no manager in the next room, no security team. For the first time in what suddenly seems like years he feels himself falling, softly, effortlessly into the spaces between, expanding, dissipating…

Then the door opens behind him and he is back on the stoop again, his focus stolen away by both the sudden company and a small, surprised grunt. Zenyatta turns.

With the dim glow of the bar at his back the man is silhouetted, broad across his shoulders and trim at the waist in spite of his age; though Zenyatta can see the shadows in the lines of his face, the soft silver-white of his hair seems almost golden by its light. Apparently he is somewhat less impressed by what greets him, because the moment he’s finished putting on his coat he folds his arms and fixes Zenyatta with an incredulous look.

“You need something?”

“No, thank you. I am simply waiting for a car to collect me.”

The crease between the man’s eyebrows deepens to a crag. “By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“At this time of night?”

“... yes?”

“Right.” The man heaves a sigh that seems to imply that, not for the first time, the weight of the world has been unfairly thrust upon him. “Move over.”

Feeling oddly chastised, Zenyatta edges along. Even sitting the man overshadows him by a good head, his own shoulders at the ideal height to nudge into the thick biceps hidden beneath his coat. While he did not think himself particularly _un_safe before, he has to admit that his presence is reassuring.

He tilts his head curiously at his new bodyguard. “Thank you. It is kind of you to take the time, Mr…?”

_Something_ flits across the man’s face- surprise, almost, in the briefest tic of his eyebrows and the set of his mouth- but it is gone within the moment it appears. He shakes his head.

“Jack. Just ‘Jack’. And forget about it. An omnic like you, dressed like that?” Jack’s eyes flicker down Zenyatta’s form, resting, fleetingly, on the sleek, expensive elegance of his shirt and (somewhat rumpled) trousers. “You’re just asking for trouble. I don’t need that on my conscience.”

“All the same, I am very grateful.” He holds out a hand, which Jack ignores. “I am Zenyatta.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You did not have to.”

Jack huffs through his nose, almost aggravated, but when he speaks there is a certain wry edge to his voice that could nearly be mistaken for a smile. Nearly. 

“I knew I should’ve just walked away.” The man leans forward on his elbows. In profile, he is just as striking, all clean, masculine angles offset by the glint of his eyes. “Just so we’re clear, this isn’t an invitation to tell me your life story.”

“As a matter of fact, I was just about to tell you about my troubled past,” Zenyatta breezes back, “but I will refrain from doing so, since you have requested otherwise.”

That sets those eyes rolling; though it is hard to tell in this light, Zenyatta thinks they might blue.

They sit together for some time, then, Jack lapsing into a pensive silence that almost belies just how alert he truly is. Statue-still, his gaze nonetheless tracks every passing vehicle, and as strangers stumble along the street his body tenses fractionally, as if expecting them to turn at any moment. Before Zenyatta has even seen the black SUV finally mount the curb for himself, Jack’s hand is twitching over his knee, almost grabbing ahold of him. Only when the window rolls down and its driver calls out to them does he relax again. As much as he can possibly relax, at least.

Seemingly satisfied, he gives Zenyatta a curt nod.

“That’s your ride. Get going.”

Before he can slink away, however, Zenyatta reaches for his hand and holds it loosely in both of his own. “Thank you. Truly. If you would like, I could ask my driver to take you-”

“No,” he says, quick and harsh, and it would almost be rude if not for the way he extracts rather than yanks back his hand. “Forget it. Don’t go hanging around any more street corners.”

The lights of Zenyatta’s jieba flutter with his laugh. “You have my word. Until next time, Jack.”

Still, as the car crawls off of the sidewalk and away from the bar, Zenyatta twists in his seat to watch the man fade into the darkness through the window, until the intensity of his gaze is severed by distance. 

Sighing, he sinks back against the seats and into the quiet of his own mind for what feels like the first time in days rather than hours, turning over the events of the day. Sooner or later, he knows, he will have to face both Genji and Hanzo and their bruised egos. Genji may well be a lost cause, but when it comes to Hanzo neither of them will have any choice in the matter, given tomorrow’s schedule. Undoubtedly he will be there to prepare him to the livestream on which he is due to guest-star, and Zenyatta can only hope that his professionalism will overcome his pride- along with whatever hangover he will undoubtedly be nursing.


	5. The livestream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a bit of a delay, we're back! The latest votes for each chapter can be found pinned to the top of my [twitter](https://twitter.com/afearfulbride).

As the car door slams behind him, Zenyatta muses on the ways in which Hanzo, even without speaking, manages to make his displeasure felt. The reception has been chilly this morning, which is no surprise, given that the last he saw of his manager was the look of shock and hurt on his face as he followed his brother into the night. Now both the man’s eyes and his dark shadows alike are concealed by a pair of tastefully unseasonal sunglasses, effectively blocking any hope of reading his expression.

His voice, on the other hand, he makes no attempt to control, from the moment they arrive in the ARASHI’s studios to record the livestream. The oppressive silence of the elevator up finally forces his hand.

“This was left for you at the office,” Hanzo informs him crisply. In his hand is a phone: _Zenyatta’s_ phone, to be precise.

He does not need to tell him by whom, and Zenyatta gets the impression that he wouldn’t want to anyway. Zenyatta takes it as cautiously as if it were a live grenade. The real surprise is that Genji has returned it to him in the first place, all things considered; while it is nice to think that it is a peace offering of sorts, Zenyatta rather suspects that he simply wished to avoid any excuse for a face-to-face confrontation after the embarrassment of the previous night.

Regardless, he is not given much time to invent motives. The doors glide open, and Hanzo stalks ahead of him towards the room hosting their livestream.

For someone who can’t have gotten off of a plane more than two hours ago, the young woman tinkering with their set-up looks remarkably at ease; in her enormous hoodie and faded leggings one could be forgiven for assuming she is in her own home, not a studio more than five hundred miles away. When her chair swivels around Zenyatta is met with an enormous pink bubble instead, above which a pair of inquisitive brown eyes brighten as they spot him.

“You must be D.va.”

The bubble pops unceremoniously, but that doesn’t seem to bother her. She grins at him, and the reason for her remarkable following and fame instantly becomes apparent. “So _you’re_ Zenyatta! It’s really cool to finally meet you- I couldn’t stop listening to your single all the way here.” She pats the chair beside her. “Come on, sit down. And just call me Hana, okay? It’s not showtime yet.”

Zenyatta obliges, drawing his feet up with him into a dainty lotus. “Thank you, Hana. I must confess, I am not an avid viewer of yours, but the streams I have caught have been a great deal of fun!” He pauses, head to one side. “I have never…”

“Don’t sweat it!” Hana winks at him. “Just go with the flow and I’ll handle it. You _can_ play video games, right?”

“I can try.”

“That’s the spirit. Get comfy, okay? I just gotta check for donations and then we’ll be good to go.”

As she swerves back to the computer, Zenyatta turns to watch as she works her magic on each of the dual monitors; one is an organised chaos of recording and streaming programmes, screens within screens, while on the other a chat window streams by almost too quickly for his optics to catch without effort. He’s distracted only by the soft click of the door behind him as Hanzo enters the room, though his nod is barely acknowledged at all.

His appearance, however, seems to give Hana pause. Her eyes flicker up and down him once, and the moment his back is turned she leans in conspiratorially.

“FYI… my audience would really appreciate seeing the man behind the scenes,” she tells him. There’s a mischievous glimmer in her eyes that Zenyatta finds himself liking immensely. “You know. Just to answer a few questions and offer, like, moral support.”

Zenyatta’s lights blink slowly. “You want him to be…”

“Eye candy.” Apparently Hana catches something in the cant of his head that his face-plate cannot convey, because she throws up her hands, nose wrinkled. “I’m not saying he’s my type! But my viewers are mainly girls, and a lot of them are into DILFs.”

Had he the eyebrows for it, they would be raised. “DILFs.”

“Oh, right. ‘Dads I’d Like To-’”

“I believe I understand,” Zenyatta interrupts. In spite of himself he casts a backwards glance to where Hanzo stands, juggling a takeaway coffee cup and his cell phone.

True, he is handsome- he has, embarrassingly, caught himself watching the man far too many times for him to suggest otherwise- but it is more a matter of whether Hanzo would even agree to it, and if Zenyatta even _wants_ him to in the first place. For starters, he would have to apologise. Though he is certain that Hanzo is owed that much at least after his abandonment, he cannot pretend that Genji’s explanation has not somewhat coloured his perspective.

Within seconds of the thought crossing his mind, however, the phone in Zenyatta’s back pocket vibrates, once and then once more, as two individual alerts call his attention. Only belatedly does he realise that both are from a contact he is distinctly sure was not present on his phone before: _the hotter brother_. Hmm.

Zenyatta opens the conversation.

_heyyy gorgeous guess who ;) ;) ;)_

_ur welcome_

He does not, Zenyatta thinks somewhat ruefully, sound particularly apologetic after last night. Before he can give the matter much thought, a third message appears: _cmon dont leave me on read u cant still be mad at me_

Beside him, Hana is carefully arranging her trademark headset over her hair, adjusting their rabbit ears until they’re at the perfect, perky angle.

“We’re live in thirty seconds.” She gives his phone a cursory glance. “Can’t it wait?”

* * *

**CHOICES:**

a) Focus on the livestream alone and tell Genji to wait  
b) Try to reply to Genji while doing the livestream  
c) Apologise to Hanzo and ask him to join the livestream


End file.
